Chrysanthemum
by Dark Arwen
Summary: CatherineSara, Grissom POV. Hidden languages and the voyeur who cracks the code. Sweet dropping down into angst.


Title: Chrysanthemum  
Author: Feather aka Dark Arwen  
Rating: PG  
Keywords: Catherine/Sara, Grissom POV.  
Spoilers: None really.  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. And if they were, I'm not so sure I'd share. So good thing, huh? Fluff, angst, character death.  
Challenge: Meryl Streep Movie Titles  
Word Count: 1441.

Author's Note: I didn't feel like dealing with Lindsey in this. She's been sent to the inter-dimensional holding tank for this fic. Also posted in the CathandSara journal on LJ.

He had watched them watch each other.

The way they had fallen into each other's orbit, circling closer and closer until there was nowhere to go but up, rising together in a way that only they could.

They were intensely private about their relationship; he wondered if anyone else picked up on it, and doubted it. He didn't know anyone, other than himself, who could speak their charming language.

He had realized in the beginning that they were using a code to communicate; he had realized that they thought that they alone knew it. And there was no reason, really, for them to think otherwise. His knowledge of archaic Victoriana went deeper than anyone suspected, or else they would have found some other way to leave each other messages than the language of flowers.

The first time it happened he was sure it was a fluke. A pink chrysanthemum, left by Catherine in Sara's coffee cup.

_Chrysanthemum. You're a wonderful friend._

The next evening found a branch of spherical, fuzzy Acacia blossom's in Catherine's spot at the table.

_Acacia. Friendship, concealed love._

Alone in the break room, he had realized that he was watching a developing romance.

That night, Catherine's smile lit up the room.

A day later Sara was spotted in the locker room, trying to hide her blushes from Nick and Warrick's teasing, grinning as she held up a pure white gardenia to shield her face.

_Gardenia. You're lovely, Sweet, secret love._

Working a case, he had had to remind Catherine to take the orchid out from behind her ear, where she had proudly tucked it after discovering it in her locker at the beginning of shift.

_Orchid. Love, beauty, beautiful lady._

Passing the break room later on, he'd seen Sara staring at a small bouquet of yellow tulips. Her dark eyes shone, whether from the bright color of the blooms or with happiness he wasn't sure.

_Yellow tulips. There is sunshine in your smile; hopeless love._

The night after that, he caught a glimpse of Catherine opening a case file; she'd lifted the delicate spray of ambrosia from among the pages with an expression of disbelief and happiness. He had kept walking, and the people who passed him wondered why he was smiling.

_Ambrosia. Your love is reciprocated._

After her case for the night had been wrapped up, he let Catherine leave a little bit early, and wasn't surprised when he found her back at the lab an hour later, eyes sparkling and lips forming excuses about forgotten paperwork.

Sara had stayed after shift to work on her case, despite the threat of maxing out on overtime. At eight o'clock, he'd seen her hard at work in the layout room, and had spoken to her about the case. At eight fifteen, when he passed that way again, she was still bent over the table, but her eyes were riveted on a small box of white violets that hadn't been there before. Their sweet, intoxicating perfume floated out into the hallway and clung to him for the rest of the day. It was a scent he would associate with her from that moment on.

_White violets. Let's take a chance on happiness._

At eight thirty, when he went back to check on her, she was gone.

Neither Sara nor Catherine were scheduled to work that night. Greg, Nick, and Warrick cracked jokes about Girl's Night Out. They hit closer to the mark than they ever would have guessed, if the flowers at Catherine's place at the table the next night were anything to go by.

_Sweet peas. Delicate, blissful pleasure, thank you for a lovely time._

And in Sara's locker, daffodils.

_Daffodils. You're the only one, the sun shines when I'm with you._

That night was slow. Two open and shut cases resulted in Sara and Catherine with nothing to do; they opted to take his suggestion to leave early. They didn't know that he was hiding behind a bank of lockers as they switched their jackets and prepared to leave. They didn't see the happiness for them in his eyes as he watched them each pull a single red rose from their locker. Their eyes met as they exchanged them, and he felt that even if he had walked between them, they wouldn't have noticed, blinded as they were by each other.

_Single red rose. I love you._

The flowers didn't stop after that. It became a game for Catherine and Sara to hide sprays, bouquets, and single blossoms in the oddest places; while people wondered about the flowers popping up everywhere, no one seemed to grasp their deeper meaning. Only he could read in between the lines of their organic conversation.

_Phlox. Our souls are united._

_Queen Anne's Lace. Haven._

_Sunflower. Adoration, pride, sunshine._

_Magenta zinnia. Lasting affection._

_Calla lily. Beauty._

_Jonquil. Affection returned, desire, love me._

_Red hyacinth. Play._

_Pink camellias. Longing for you._

_Blue camellias. You're a flame in my heart._

And always, roses. Leaning in to fix a minute mistake or to point out a piece of evidence, he would smell roses. The enthralling fragrance clung to their hair, their skin, their clothes. He wondered if they made love with rose petals scattered over their sheets, or if he was just imagining things.

Then the sun went out.

He knew, just like everyone else, that no flowers could grow when the sun didn't shine.

He had a feeling that the sun would never rise for Catherine again. No rain but blood- Sara's- would ever fall on her soil. A stray bullet at a stray crime scene, throwing stray petals to a brutal wind.

He never expected to find flowers in the lab again.

The others must have sensed more than he guessed; must have realized, if not the exact meaning behind Catherine and Sara's flowers, that they weren't accidents. They made sure that the floral tributes for their fallen comrade went elsewhere.

Catherine went through the motions of day-to-day living, oblivious to the concern of her friends, eating and sleeping and working only because she knew it was what Sara would have wanted her to do. But the anguish in her eyes and the silence echoing in the void that had once contained her rich voice were heartbreaking.

He was surprised, one evening, to find a single wild iris in Sara's coffee cup, which none of them had had the courage to move. There was an unspoken agreement in the lab that if anyone was going to clear away her coffee mug, it would be either him or Catherine. He touched the delicate blue-purple petals, frowning, unsure what to make of it. There was no point to leaving a flower for no one who would understand it.

_Wild iris, also known as Fleur-de-lis. Flame; Burning._

His frown deepened, and he strode into his office, barely registering knocking into Greg on the way. Impatient fingers flipped on the lights, and his heart plummeted into the floor as his eyes landed on the splash of color on the desk.

_Poppies. Eternal sleep; Oblivion._

Catherine hadn't left the flowers as some sort of memorial to Sara. They had nothing to do with any healing process. They were a pointed message... for him.

He tried to think back to the moment Catherine had realized he spoke their language, had cracked their code. Maybe she would have forgiven him for his voyeurism. Maybe Sara would have, too. He had the sinking feeling that he would never know. The bright color of the flowers on the desk seemed seared into his retina as he ran from the room, shouting for Nick.

She was laying across her made bed when they found her. She might have been sleeping.

A bouquet of brightly colored flowers had been clutched in her now lifeless hand. The muscles had loosened, so that the stems rested in her relaxed fingers. She might have been a subject in a painting, the way her long blonde hair was swept across the dark coverlet, the brilliant petals contrasting with her unnaturally pale skin. Nick had tears in his eyes but his hand was steady as he raised the camera to his face.

"The flowers, Grissom," he asked, his voice gravely. He looked lost, helpless, as he searched for words and couldn't find them, settling on an inaquedate, "Why more flowers?"

Grissom looked at the spray lying on the bed.

"Primroses," was the only reply Nick got. He would wonder about that answer- for there was no doubt in his mind that it was the answer, and not an offhand Grissom remark- for years.

_Primrose. I can't live without you. _


End file.
